I think I am perpetually inside of the ‘blues’. Maybe parts of my like it there. The weak, melancholy longing of it all. Productive? No. But it sure does make for gut wrenching poetry.
I feel like sipping on tea or coffee has become a romantic gesture these days. I feel like a leggy Bukowski. Bitter, wanting, sad, enlightened. Taking my coffee, too hot, thinking obscene things about my love. I write novels in my head before noon.
I feel like you know exactly what I mean. xx
It’s funny, i was recently listening to a famous poet talk about when he felt it was best to write poetry - he said - during spaces of nothingness. No anger, no fear, no hurt, no lost love. I thought to myself, clearly, he hasn’t been on tumblr.
'Novels before noon', should be the title of your book my friend. I do, i do know exactly what you mean. and we're both just kind of muddling through this together, apart. One day we'll wake up and simply be able to quote Bukowski - not feel him running in our veins.